Into the Light of a Dark Black Night
by Hummingbird1759
Summary: Mycroft and Molly watch each other sleep. Unrepentant fluff. Rated T to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story contains MollCroft shipping and fluff. No like, no read. As always, I don't own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Conan Doyle do. The title of this story and the coded texts are from "Blackbird" by The Beatles._

* * *

He awoke in the middle of the night and blinked at the ceiling. It was unusual for him, being up like this; normally, he slept like the dead. He'd learned to sleep when and where he could soon after starting his career. Jobs like his didn't cease at 5 PM, and fatigue led to mistakes, which could have deadly consequences.

Deadly consequences – that's why he was awake at this ungodly hour. He'd set his mental alarm so that he would be awake to receive a text that would provide confirmation of a mission ended successfully. No text and the mission was a failure, and this was one mission that could not be allowed to fail. He tried not to think too much about the agent's promises of success, or to weigh whether those promises were based on reality or the robustness of the agent's ego.

It was two minutes before his burn phone buzzed, during which time he counted the number of breaths he took _(thirty-seven)_ and estimated how much farther his hairline would recede before this operation was over _(at least 50 millimetres)_. When the text finally arrived, his pulse elevated sharply, and then returned to its normal speed after he read the coded message.

_I hear blackbirds singing. – S_

_In the dead of night? – M_

_It's morning here. – S_

_Then have a banana. – M_

Cryptic instructions sent, he returned the phone to its hiding place and crept back to bed. Pulling back the covers, he gazed at the feminine form on the other side of the bed. At first he'd hesitated to invite her here tonight, worried she might see something she shouldn't, but after her second glass of white wine, his fears were allayed. _(It's better than a sleeping pill for her.)_ She didn't even stir as he brushed an errant strand of brown hair from her cheek.

The corners of his mouth turned up as he watched her sleep. During the day, she was perpetually in motion, a little bundle of nervous energy, but when sleep finally claimed her, she was the image of peace. He was amused at the way she'd often awake with creases not just on her face, but on her torso and hips and thighs from the pressure of bedsheets and pyjamas on her skin.

On another night, he might remind himself that after what he'd done, he didn't deserve her, or that if there were any justice in the world, he'd be the one on the run and Sherlock would be curled up in bed with a… er… what were they, exactly? "Friends" had the wrong connotation, but he refused to use the words "boyfriend" and "girlfriend." _(I'm a grown man, for God's sake.)_ "Lover" was too vulgar, as well as incorrect. He couldn't say that he loved her, and he knew she couldn't say that she loved him. The thought would have been disheartening to some men and freeing to others, but to him it was neither. It was not a cold truth but a teasing truth, a hint of things that might come.

She sighed in her sleep and buried her face a little deeper into the pillow, like a duck tucking its head under its wing. He stifled a fond chuckle and decided to go back to sleep_. _ His last thought before dozing off was that they didn't love each other, but perhaps someday they could.


	2. Chapter 2

It always took her a long time to get to sleep. Most nights she'd toss and turn and stare at the ceiling for what seemed like hours before her mind finally shut off. She never understood how he managed to fall asleep immediately after his head hit the pillow. It was one of the many things about him that mystified her.

She supposed that was why she'd started seeing him _(for lack of a better word)_. He intrigued her. She'd always liked men who were a bit mysterious – perhaps that was why she'd been attracted to his brother – but he was a different sort of mysterious. His brother had an air of danger about him, but the man sleeping next to her did not. He was refined but not boring, loyal but not obsequious, a three-piece suit on the outside and a knight in shining armor on the inside.

He fascinated her, and he worried her. She knew what he'd done to his brother, how his betrayal had cost his brother everything – including his life, as far as everyone else knew. His brother's friends still refused to speak to him. When the two of them went out, they were careful to avoid his brother's old haunts. No one need know of their status, _(what is our status, anyway?)_ and seeing them together would no doubt open the wounds of his brother's bereaved comrades.

She looked over at his sleeping form. He always seemed so innocent while he was asleep, in sharp contrast to the icy exterior he presented while awake. In the pale moonlight, eyelashes resting on his cheeks and lips barely parted, he seemed ten years younger. Looking at him now, it was hard to believe that this man was the British Government, a man who ordered assassinations, who had secretive dealings with God knew how many foreign spies.

This was the man who effectively killed his brother.

How could she love a man who did such a horrible thing? For that matter, how could a man like him love anyone?

She remembered his face the first time she came here – when she dropped off his presumed-dead brother. She'd seen faces like that before when families were called in to identify bodies thought to be their loved one, and the body was, in fact, a stranger. Despite his preternatural calm, the relief had been evident, and any concerns she'd had about taking Sherlock here evaporated. _(He's not what anyone thinks.)_

Still, the idea of _him_ (tall, dapper, poised) loving _her_ (short, plain, anxious) was ludicrous. The thought made her sag, but only for a moment. She considered how they'd been at the opera earlier that night, how he'd helped her choose heels that she wouldn't stumble in, how he'd assisted her in navigating his social circle, and how she'd understood some of the Italian due to her knowledge of Latin. She remembered the impressed look on his face and blushed a little.

A few weeks ago, she'd autopsied an elderly woman. At the outset, there was no logical reason the woman should have died; she appeared to have been the picture of health. But a reading of her history and a close examination of the woman's cardiac muscle revealed the truth: she was a textbook case of takotsubo cardiomyopathy, or broken heart syndrome, brought on by the recent death of her husband. The condition seems too fanciful to be real, but it is.

He sighed in his sleep, a contented little sound. She planted a small kiss on his forehead, then rolled over, a smile on her face. The idea of the two of them together was also too fanciful to be real… but then, truth often is stranger than fiction.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Continued by request of johnsarmylady. :)_

* * *

He had done this before, and he had sworn never to do it again. Keeping a vigil over a hospital bed was an atrocious display of sentiment, and he really ought to know better, especially where this patient was concerned. He took a moment to chide himself for spending entirely too much time worrying about people who didn't give one whit for their own safety, then focused his ire on the figure in the bed.

_(How could you ignore the warning signs of appendicitis? You're a doctor, for God's sake!)_ He shook his head grimly. Her devotion to duty was admirable, but clearly he needed to give her a talking-to about protecting her health. Unlike his brother, he understood the importance of tending to one's physical needs. _(Your patients are deceased, Molly Hooper! They will wait. Your appendix did not. Your surgeon said that it ruptured, and that you are exceedingly lucky to work in a hospital.)_

He gave an indignant sniff and studied the IV drips running into her arm. Antibiotics to stave off infection – the doctor said she'd need them for at least a few days – and fluids to prevent her from dehydrating; she wouldn't be allowed to eat or drink for at least 24 hours. It was the standard of care, the doctors were competent enough, and she would be fine, he kept telling himself.

Sighing, he turned back to his BlackBerry and newspaper. _(Might as well make an attempt at productivity. No doubt the morphine will keep her sedated for several hours.)_ He was reading the latest news about Kim Jong Un when the sound of stiletto heels on the tile floor interrupted his thoughts.

His PA delicately entered the room. "Sir? The nurses asked me to tell you that visiting hours end in thirty minutes."

He pursed his lips and was about to remind her that visiting hours didn't apply to family, but she beat him to the punch.

With a slight smile, she said, "Sir, if you like I can tell them you're her father…"

His face resembled a bag of prunes. The ten-year age gap was one of a great many reasons why they hadn't made their status public. "Were you not so capable with the North Koreans, you'd now be out of a job."

She told him (in Korean) that she was grateful for the compliment, and that a DI and a former army doctor were on their way to see the patient. The fact that they would not be happy to see him was unspoken but understood.

"_Kamsahamnida_*," he replied.

His assistant left first, strategically moving a large laundry cart to obscure the view from the elevators. He didn't give any fond parting words to the patient; he wasn't the sort of man who did such things, and even if he were, she wouldn't be awake to hear it. He wasn't even sure she'd been aware of his presence, and yet, he found himself unreasonably annoyed that the DI and the doctor had interrupted his visit. _(I shall just have to check on her again tomorrow.)_

* * *

_*Korean for "Thank you very much." I don't speak Korean, but my understanding is that this is the most formal way to say thank you, and leave it to Mycroft to find the most formal way to do something. _


	4. Chapter 4

She was surprised to be awake in the middle of the night. It had been an exhausting few days; first, fainting at work when she couldn't take the pain in her abdomen any longer _(God, that was embarrassing)_, then the emergency appendectomy, a day in a painkiller-induced haze, and now back home, with strict instructions not to return to work for two more days. He'd insisted on staying with her tonight, her first night at home.

She reached for him, but found the other half of the bed empty. _(Wait. Where is he?) _If he'd gotten up from bed he'd likely have a light on somewhere, but her flat was pitch dark. _(Probably went home, the posh twit. Can't stick around for silly Molly, no, can't even tell anyone we're…)_

The pathologist's pity party was interrupted by the sound of a gentle snore. Slowly, she sat up, mindful of the surgeon's instructions about her incision. There was just enough light coming through the window for her to see Mycroft dozing in a recliner next to the bed, a blanket over him. She must have really been out; she hadn't even heard him drag the chair in from the living room. But why would he have done that when he could have just slept in her bed?

_(Oh. Because it's _my_ bed.)_

He seldom spoke of his past, and she'd never pressed him for details; she knew that there was much unhappiness in his and his brother's childhood, and he would tell her about it in his own time. The one aspect of his early life that he had discussed freely was his mother, who taught him everything he knew about proper behaviour. He held doors, he pulled out chairs, and he freely gave his coat or umbrella. To him, climbing into her bed – a tacit request for intimacy – would be unspeakably rude given her current state of health.

She smiled tenderly at him and then eased herself back onto the mattress. _(Only Mycroft Holmes could make a girl feel loved by staying _out_ of her bed.)_


	5. Chapter 5

He sat upright on her couch, absently stroking her hair as he read the latest report on Ecuador. She had been stretched out next to him watching _Love Actually_, but she'd long ago dozed off, a consequence of the painkillers the surgeon had prescribed. Never one for sentiment, he'd shut off the treacle as soon as she began snoring and got back to work. _(International politics does not take a day off.)_

Footsteps thudded up the walk. _(Male, early to mid-thirties. Alone.)_ He first suspected a salesman, but when the man eased a key into the lock, he knew it could be only one person. _(Of course. Molly's elder brother, come to check on her.)_

"Molls?" Tim called out as he walked in. As he shut the door, he paused, taken aback by the sight of Molly sleeping with her head in the lap of an extremely posh older man. "Er… and you are?"

"Mycroft Holmes. You must be Tim. I would get up but I'd rather not disturb the lady," Mycroft said, nodding to the still-slumbering Molly.

A bit flummoxed, Tim replied, "Yes. So… you're my sister's boyfriend?"

The posh man wrinkled his nose slightly. _("Boyfriend." What a ridiculous word.) _"In a manner of speaking, I suppose," he sniffed.

"Right. Well, whatever the two of you are calling yourselves-"

The brotherly warning was interrupted when Molly drowsily raised her head and murmured, "Tim? When did you get here?"

Tim walked over to the couch and crouched down to meet Molly's eyes. "Just now, Molls. How are you feeling?"

"All right. Mycroft's been taking care of me," she said with a smile.

Mycroft's phone buzzed and he arched an eyebrow at the incoming text. "Tim, since you travelled from Loughton, I trust you plan to stay at least a few hours?"

The younger man blinked. "Er… yes. How did you know?"

He gave Molly's brother a condescending smile. "Good. I'm afraid duty calls, and I should hate to leave Molly alone in her current condition."

The diplomat gently nudged the pathologist off of his lap, retrieved a pillow from an adjacent chair, slipped it under Molly's head, and told her to get some rest. As he glided towards the door, Tim spoke.

"Mycroft… a word?"

He stopped and arched an eyebrow. The elder Hooper walked over to him, looked him straight in the eye, and said, "Be good to her. Understand?"

The corners of the diplomat's mouth turned up minutely. "Fear not, Timothy. I shall not cause you to break your promise to your father."

Tim could only gape as the posh man waltzed out, twirling his umbrella.


	6. Chapter 6

_(Even Mycroft Holmes gets jet lagged.)_ She giggled under her breath and gently ran her fingertips over the diplomat's cheek;he somehow never had stubble, which was amazing to her. He arrived at her flat immediately after his return from Tokyo and he'd insisted that the eight-hour time difference was nothing at all and he did this sort of thing frequently. She couldn't say no to his request; after his time abroad she'd been more anxious to see him that she cared to admit.

He'd suggested going out for brunch, but she told him she'd been up late the night before – series of murder victims, needed to have them all autopsied as soon as possible – and she just happened to have a DVD of his favourite film, why not sit back and watch it?

The expression on his face had been priceless. _(I may not be a Holmes, but I could still deduce that "Lawrence of Arabia" is your favourite film.)_

Merely thirty minutes into the film, his head had lolled onto hers, a comical picture given the difference in their heights. Amidst his somnolent protests, she'd gently helped him manoeuvre into a horizontal position, such that he was stretched out on the couch and his head was in her lap. She wondered what Sherlock would do if he saw his brother like this and quietly giggled again at the image of the detective's face.

Mycroft stirred in his sleep but calmed when she stopped laughing and resumed stroking his cheek. _(Even when he's unconscious, he can read my mind.) _She thought of the morning he left for Japan, ten days earlier. The elder Holmes had stopped by during her coffee break and DI Lestrade arrived at the morgue just as he was leaving.

_"Good day, Molly," he had said, the light in his eyes known only to her. "I cannot text while abroad, but you shall always be in my thoughts."_

_"And you shall be in mine," she replied with a shy smile._

_The diplomat sauntered out and nodded to the arriving DI. Startled at first, Greg quickly regained his composure, grunted, "Mycroft," and glared daggers at the diplomat's retreating form. Eighteen months after Sherlock's death and two months since his name had been cleared, the animosity remained._

_"Greg!" Molly squeaked. "I, er, didn't see you there."_

_The DI folded his arms. "You mind telling me what _he_ was doing here?"_

_Molly opened her mouth, struggling to form a coherent reply. Before she could speak, Greg worked it out._

_His jaw dropped and he practically shouted, "You're dating _him_?"_

_The blush on Molly's face spoke for itself._

_The DI gritted his teeth. "Molly Hooper, what the hell are you thinking? After everything that son-of-a-bitch did, how can you possibly think he's boyfriend material?"_

_"I… er… it's not like that," she said meekly. There was no way to tell the truth._

_Greg smoldered a minute longer, then huffed and asked to see the murder victim he'd come for. After Molly reported her findings, Greg excused himself. As he left he told Molly to be careful of Mycroft Holmes. "You know what he's capable of," the DI said, nodding to the autopsy table._

A vibrating mobile interrupted the pathologist's memories. Mycroft blinked, extricated himself from the couch, and retrieved the phone from his jacket pocket. Molly seldom saw this phone but she knew its purpose, and he knew that she knew. The diplomat dashed off a reply and then leaned over to kiss Molly on the cheek.

"Terribly sorry, Molly. Duty calls."

"Of course. Run along, then," she said.

He was gone in under thirty seconds, and she knew there was only one person for whom he'd move that quickly. The following day, Molly was delighted to see the news of a consulting detective's return from the dead. Happy as she was, she was not the least bit surprised.

After all, she knew what Mycroft was capable of.


	7. Chapter 7

In the wee hours of a November morning, Mycroft Holmes was stretched out on top of the covers catching up on his reading. Sherlock was safely back at 221B, Sebastian Moran was six feet underground, and most of London – including the other occupant of the bed – was sound asleep. Mycroft, however, had missed a day of work for the first time in ten years and had a great deal of catching up to do.

The last time he'd missed a day of work, his brother was at St. Bart's for an overdose. This time, he'd missed work because his brother returned from what everyone else thought was the dead, but what he and the slumbering woman next to him had known was an eighteen-month quest to wipe out Moriarty's network. Upon reuniting after such a separation, most siblings might have been somewhat emotional, but the Holmes boys had never been most siblings.

_"Greetings," Mycroft said, leaning forward on his umbrella. "I see you're none the worse for wear."_

_Sherlock gave him the once-over and snorted, "You must have been horrendously bored while I was gone."_

_Mycroft huffed under his breath. He knew what Sherlock was getting at but refused to rise to the bait. "Yes, eighteen months without your antics was rather relaxing," the diplomat said evenly._

_The younger man rolled his eyes and then began spewing deductions faster than an AK-47 spews bullets. "Oh for God's sake, Mycroft, you do a terrible impression of an idiot! You've lost five pounds and you always cut back on calories when trying to impress a romantic interest. You were in Tokyo yesterday and you took a nap at your love interest's flat to recover from the jet lag, and judging by the cramp in your neck you slept on her couch, probably with your head in her lap – God, that's a disgusting image – because you smell faintly of lilies, which is likely her shampoo or body wash, or both. I also detect a hint of formaldehyde, and since you'd rather cut off your right arm than dissect anything, it must have come from your 'lady friend.' However, I _don't_ smell perfume, which is a bit odd for a woman who works with formaldehyde – most of them wear entirely too much perfume to mask the smell, but your lady friend doesn't wear any. Furthermore, you have a long brown hair on your shoulder and cat hairs on the hem of your trousers; you must have really been in a rush if you didn't remove them. Or did Parliament pass a ban lint rollers while I was away?"_

_The diplomat rolled his eyes. "Are you quite finished?"_

_Sherlock smirked. "Brother dear, I know it's been a long time since you've had a proper date, but really, _Molly Hooper?_"_

_The elder brother looked down his nose as he sniffed, "I fail to see why that is any concern of yours."_

_"You are my only surviving relative and she helped me survive Moriarty. I fail to see why it is _not_ my concern," the younger brother countered._

_"Baby brother, you of all people ought to know that there is a great deal more to Molly than most would suspect. Perhaps I shall elaborate someday, but for now, you and I need to maintain our focus on Sebastian Moran."_

_Sherlock grunted in assent and muttered that at least Mycroft hadn't _completely_ lost his senses, and the brothers began to formulate a plot._

After finishing the last of his documents, Mycroft gazed down at the woman sleeping in his bed. He thought of everything she'd done over the last eighteen months: she found the perfect body to replace Sherlock on the sidewalk, disguised it well enough to fool John, provided Sherlock with the cistracurium* that had allowed him to fool Mycroft into thinking he was dead (and the neostigmine, which prevented him from dying on the autopsy table), and periodically checked on Sherlock's closest associates and taking meticulous notes of every wrinkle, every fidget, every grimace. She'd done the jobs, done them thoroughly, and kept a smile on her face throughout. She was a steel fist in a floral gardening glove, a cup of tea with just enough lemon to balance out the honey.

Teatime would soon be over, he knew. With Sherlock home, the secret that bound them together was no more. She'd find someone younger, or they'd tire of each other, or they'd simply drift apart. It was the way things went when one was the British Government, and Mycroft knew better than to lament it. Really, it was a miracle they'd lasted this long. Despair was very middle-class, he reminded himself.

He slid under the covers, planting a small kiss on her forehead as she did so. She smiled in her sleep, and he blinked. He doubted she was dreaming of him, but her smile told him that she wasn't dreaming of Sherlock, either. The thought made Mycroft oddly content, and he dozed off soon after.

* * *

*Cistracurium is a neuromuscular blocking agent. A small dose prevents shivering, a large dose prevents any movement – including that of the diaphragm, which is necessary for breathing. Neostigmine is the antidote.


	8. Chapter 8

She'd been up late writing an article; the one that she'd hoped would finally get her into _The Journal of Clinical Pathology_. He'd gone to bed before her, claiming an early flight the next day. She wondered if this was one of those times he'd had another motive for going to bed early, and she'd missed it. _(Again. God, I'm an idiot.) _She'd never been good at reading signals from men, and his could be maddeningly cryptic.

The pathologist glanced at the time and sighed. She'd been rereading at the same sentence for the last fifteen minutes because as soon as she finished the sentence, the meaning of it flew out of her head. It was time for bed.

She climbed under the duvet, her heart a lead weight in her chest. He'd been more distant than usual lately. Either he thought that she was tired of him, or, far more likely, he was tired of her. Really, it was her own bloody fault for letting it come to this. _(Stupid Molly, ruining everything again…)_ She was letting him slip away, and he didn't care. As she watched his chest rise and fall in the pale moonlight, she could see why; he looked debonair even in pyjamas and she was just the morgue mouse. She would never be anything better, never be enough.

She rolled over in bed, her back to him. She knew this would happen sooner or later, she told herself. He didn't need her, and when he came back from his trip, he'd go to his own flat rather than to hers. A few days after that, she would come home from work and find all traces of him removed from her flat and her key to his flat missing. That was for the best, she tried to convince herself; they didn't belong together, never had. They'd both be better off alone.

As she buried her face into the pillow, she found herself grateful that he was a heavy sleeper.


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: This chapter and the next one are a slight departure from watching each other sleep. All previous disclaimers (MollCroft, no like no read) still apply._

* * *

Mycroft had been sleeping soundly, but at about 2:00 AM he slowly regained awareness. _(Sight: No data due to blackout curtains. Smells: formaldehyde, lilies, cat. Touch: 400 thread count sheets. Location: Molly's bed. Sound: Sniffling, muffled by a pillow. Conclusion: Molly is crying. She can't stop and doesn't want to be heard.) _

Much like his brother, Mycroft had a great deal of difficulty in dealing with people's emotions; he much preferred reasonable problems and puzzles to work out instead of all this messy sentiment. And while he was far from an ordinary man, the one way in which Mycroft resembled an ordinary man is that he had a difficult time dealing with crying women. However, an unpleasant experience in University had taught him that when a man is in a relationship with a woman, he ignores her tears at his own peril. Resolutely, he sat up and turned on the light.

Placing a gentle hand on the middle of her back, he said softly, "Molly, darling, what's the matter?"

She choked down a sob. "Nothing."

The diplomat frowned and replied, not unkindly, "Molly Hooper, you are a terrible liar. Come now, out with it."

Molly continued weeping into her pillow as the diplomat gently stroked her vertebrae with his thumb. Mycroft sighed. _(How on Earth can I fix the problem if she won't tell me what it is? She knows I can and would do anything for… Oh. Oh dear.)_

The diplomat looked down at the mattress and whispered, "If it's my fault, Molly, I sincerely apologise." After a brief pause, he added, "I would, however, like to know what I've done that's upset you so much. How else am I to learn from my mistakes?"

She swallowed and looked up at him with eyes that reminded him of a wounded rabbit. Tears were still spilling down her cheeks, but at least she'd stopped that horrible sobbing.

"If it's the trip..." he began, but she shook her head.

She avoided his gaze and her response was barely audible. "I'm just… I'm worried you won't come back."

Mycroft blinked. "Molly, darling, why ever would you worry about such a thing? I have the best security detail on Earth, and my pilots have taken me on this journey dozens of times. You haven't a thing to fret about."

"Of course," Molly said softly.

"Get some rest, darling. We both have to make an early start tomorrow." He gave her a peck on the cheek and then rolled over, and was fast asleep again in minutes.

Five hours later and twenty thousand feet over Eastern Europe, Mycroft finally grasped what Molly had actually meant. _(At least I've a great deal of experience in apologizing…)_


	10. Chapter 10

It had been a week since he left, and she hadn't heard a peep from him. She tried to convince herself that this was nothing new, that he was never allowed to communicate with her while he was away, and that everything was fine.

She had never been very convincing.

He would be back in London soon and soon she would find out what she'd been expecting to hear all along – it wasn't working between them, he was gone, he was not coming back, and that was it. She tried to keep her thoughts off of him as she walked home in the rain, soaked to the skin despite her umbrella (much flimsier than his), but his face kept cropping up. The night at the symphony, the secrets they'd shared, the friendly bickering over which of Shakespeare's plays was best (_Julius Caesar_ was his favourite but she preferred _Much Ado About Nothing_) and whether Sean Connery (his favorite) or Daniel Craig (hers) was a better James Bond.

Nevermind. That was all over. She reminded herself that he didn't like Toby, and anybody who didn't like her cat wasn't worth her time.

When Molly came inside, she was no warmer. Rain drizzled off of her hair, her jacket felt like a sponge, and despite her wellies, her socks were damp. All she could think about was a hot shower, hot cocoa, a warm blanket, and curling up on the couch with Toby… until she walked into her living room and jumped at the sight of Mycroft Holmes fast asleep on her couch. The size of the couch had required him to bend his knees and tuck his head to his chest, and just when she thought the image couldn't get more ludicrous, Toby meowed at her from the space between Mycroft's knees and the back of the couch.

Despite herself, Molly dissolved into giggles. The sound caused Mycroft to drowsily raise his head.

"I don't see what's so amusing," he murmured with all the dignity he could muster. Sitting up, he wrinkled his nose at Toby, who placed a paw in Mycroft's lap and meowed inquisitively.

"He likes you," Molly giggled.

The diplomat rolled his eyes. "He likes to be _fed_, and he is under the mistaken impression that I shall do so. Now get yourself out of those wet clothes or you'll catch your death, Molly Hooper!

"Yes, mum," she snickered as she made her way back to her bedroom.

Mycroft frowned at her retreating form, then turned his prune face to Toby. With his thumb and index finger, he gingerly lifted the cat's paw from his trouser leg and placed it on the couch. _(Cats. Revolting creatures.)_

Thirty minutes later, Molly emerged from the bedroom clean and dry and smelling hot cocoa in the kitchen. Mycroft told her to have a seat, which she did, and he placed a steaming mug of cocoa in front of her.

"Thank you. Er, sorry I called you 'mum' earlier," she said sheepishly.

"I can assure you I've been called far worse," came the smooth reply. He paused a moment, then took her hand and said, "Darling, I feel that I owe you an apology. The night before I left, you said you were worried that I would not return from this trip, and I gave that phrase its most morbid interpretation. First, allow me to reassure you that as long as there is an England, I shall live, and there will always be an England. Second, it was not until much later that I realized you were actually worried that when I returned, I would tell you that I no longer wanted to be your-"

"Boyfriend?" Molly suggested, hiding a smile behind her mug.

The diplomat gave her a look that said she was treading on thin ice. Clearing his throat, he continued, "If others wish to use such terms – childish though they are – to define our relationship, I am content not to correct them. All I want you to know is that wherever the British Government sends me, the best part of the trip is returning to you, and if there were to come a time when I could not do that, I would be most unhappy. Do you understand what I mean, darling?"

"Yes," she said with a small smile.

The corners of his mouth turned up. "Good. Molly, there is no easy way to say this, so I fear I must be direct. With your permission, I should like for my superiors to run another thorough background check on you. While I am certain they shall find nothing, procedures dictate that this step must be taken prior to…."

She looked at him expectantly, heart slam-dancing with her ribcage.

"Prior to undertaking deeper commitments," he finished. After a short pause, he added, "Might I have your permission?"

"Yes," she said, and leaned across the table to kiss him.


	11. Epilogue: 2027

He sat in the window seat of Holmes Manor's study, gazing out at the night sky. He was up much later than usual, but the ability to stay up late was one of the perks of being semi-retired. Another of those perks was nestled in his lap, her back flush to his chest and her head tucked neatly under his chin. He smiled as he surveyed her sleeping form. She had a few gray hairs at her temples now, laugh lines encased her mouth, and she was a bit thicker at the middle – if he were truly honest, he'd admit that he was too – but she was still just as lovely as she had been that day at Bart's when he'd first really noticed her.

The first of the shooting stars crossed the sky, and he gently nudged her. "Wake up, darling. You don't want to miss the show."

She raised her head and watched in wonder as the meteors streaked across the sky. Having spent her whole life in cities, she'd never see the full glory of the Perseids. "Amazing," she breathed.

It was a perfect moment, but behind every perfect moment, there are a million sacrifices. He'd allowed her cat to move in with them and held her when it died, despite the fact that he'd detested the creature. She stayed up with him when Sherlock relapsed after John's wedding, then soothed the doctor after Mycroft had an unusual lapse in self-control. They'd both given up London for a slower-paced life at his ancestral home.

Another sacrifice came in the form of the phone next to him. It clattered to life, and he pursed his lips at the caller ID before putting the caller on speakerphone.

The voice on the other end shouted, "Father! Mummy! The Perseids have started! Can you see them?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes; Hamish, like his uncle before him, had a gift for ruining the moment. Molly bit back a giggle as the diplomat responded. "Yes, Hamish, it's quite a spectacle. Are you boys all right?"

A second voice replied, "We're awesome, Uncle Mycroft! How are you?"

Molly's face reddened with suppressed laughter. Mycroft frowned; even in the darkness, he could tell what she was imagining. Muting the mouthpiece of the phone, Mycroft said, "I assure you, Sherlock's and my childhood was not nearly as amusing as you think," he sniffed. "And I don't see why John and Mary had to foist their little hooligan onto us."

"He's _not_ a hooligan! And he's here because he wouldn't get as nice a view of the sky at home, and it's John and Mary's anniversary and they want to be alone," she gently chided.

Noticing the sour expression on her husband's face, she purred, "And because having the boys camp outside gives _us_ the chance to be alone."

The corners of his mouth turned up at this and he clicked the mute button off. "Thank you, Michael. Would you put Gregory on, please?"

A few moments later, a slightly older boy's voice came through. "What is it, Father?"

"Is everything all right with you boys?"

They could almost hear their first son roll his eyes. "Yes. Hamish and Michael are just over-excited, as always."

"Status quo is good, I suppose. Gregory, your mother and I are going to bed. Fetch the gamekeeper if there's an emergency."

Hamish's voice came through. "What's an emergency?"

Mycroft gave Hamish the tone he used to reserve for Sherlock. "Someone's arm is off."

"Yes, Father," Gregory said.

"Thank you, Gregory. Good night," the eldest Holmes replied fondly. After hanging up, he dashed off a text to the Manor's security detail.

Molly extricated herself from Mycroft's lap and then held out her hand. "Coming?"

"Of course, my darling," he whispered, enveloping her in his arms.

Outside, three boys marveled at the lights crossing the sky. Inside, the adults appreciated the darkness.

* * *

_A/N: In case anyone's wondering, Hamish Holmes and Michael Watson are about five years old here. Gregory Holmes is ten. _

_Thank you to all the lovely people who've reviewed, followed, or favorite this story! I originally wrote this as a cure for insomnia (really) and had no idea I'd get such an enthusiastic response. Long live Mollcroft! :)_


End file.
